


Cut

by dashakay



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The director doesn't yell cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to icedteainthebag for beta reading.

The director doesn't yell cut.

They haven't kissed in a long time. Years. (Not counting a totally chaste, closed mouth Disney kiss that ended up on the cutting room floor. And she doesn't count that.) In between there has been a husband and three boyfriends. On his side, a brand-new wife and God only knows how many women. She's not sure if she can count that high.

The director doesn't yell cut and she forgets to get stung by the bee before their lips touch. And then he lunges for her and the next thing she knows his tongue is in her mouth and her legs are wrapped around his waist and she's _gone_, shot straight off to the heavens, stoned on his mouth, his taste, his lips.

Yeah, a big mistake.

She's gotten carried away, despite the lights and the crew standing around and the noise and the nonsense of shooting. He's just so close, so frustratingly close. She can smell the laundry detergent scent on his shirt, his shampoo, maybe some sweat. And it makes her remember all kinds of things she tries on a regular basis to forget.

*

As soon as they wrap for the day (four more takes, believe it or not, and she has to let go of the kiss and retreat into Scully's mournful and lovestruck gravity) she gets into her car without even scraping all the makeup off her face and drives away. She doesn't want to face the crew, who whooped during the kiss like a pack of fraternity boys. She doesn't want to face the director, who'd smirked, no doubt remembering the time he caught her on her knees in her co-star's trailer. And she sure doesn't want to face _him_, his smug, beautiful, married to the blond actress, "I know I'm catnip to all women with a pulse" face. Fuck that.

*

At home, she considers calling her boyfriend to help scratch that itch, but then she remembers he's out of town. Instead, she takes a shower. A really, really long one.

The doorbell rings and she knows she didn't order any pizza. Jesus fuck, he has a hell of a lot of nerve. She pads to the door, her wet feet leaving a trail on the wood floor, her bathrobe swishing around her legs.

And yep, there he is at the door with a bottle of wine in hand and a smile that would make a Carmelite nun slip her panties off in a New York minute.

"Where's the wife?" she asks.

"Ouch," he says, but the wince is fake. He knows what he's doing and he knows it's wrong and he doesn't really care.

Neither does she, for that matter. Not after that kiss.

Besides, they have history. She was there first.

At least, that's what she tells herself.

"She's in New York. Where's the boyfriend?"

She grins. "He's fishing."

"Fishing?" His face is all astonishment.

"Really." She opens the door wider. "Are you going to come in and help me drink this wine?"

She goes to the kitchen to get wineglasses and the corkscrew and he follows her there. He stands behind her and his hands slide up and into the folds of her bathrobe. They're warm and large and they seem to remember just how she likes it, a bit of stroking, more than a bit of pinching. His breath is hot on her cheek and yes, apparently he's done some thinking about her in the last hour or so, too. He presses it into her and the corkscrew falls to the counter.

"That was some kiss," he says.

"This is bad," she manages to say. "Really, really bad."

He hasn't even been married two months.

Oh well, not her problem. He hasn't been her problem in ages.

"Just this once..." he says. "Old times' sake, right?"

She'd like to pretend that she's a maiden in a castle, carried away by an unstoppable passion that knows no bounds. But that's bullshit. She makes her own choices and she chooses this.

The bathrobe puddles around her feet and goose bumps rise on her skin. She has the air conditioning up too high. Her fingers grip the slate counter as she feels his hand part her thighs and his fingers--oh God. Yes. One, two, three, they're inside her and she's so wet it's almost embarrassing , like her body is tattling on her, giving away how much she wants him right now.

And it's somehow all the more exciting that he's behind her, that she can't see his face. She grips the kitchen counter harder.

*

She's not entirely sure how they got to her bedroom and she doesn't really care anyhow. She vaguely remembers his fingers fucking her hard, how she slammed him into the refrigerator at one point, the taste of his come, salty and warm, so _human_ tasting. Her body is thrumming with satisfaction and her thighs ache.

He does a backward dive onto her mattress, wearing only a lopsided grin and an erection the size of the Space Needle . His fingers beckon her. "I want you on top," he says. "I want to see you. All of you."

She, herself, finds it hard to look him in the eyes as they fuck. It's too much. There's so much history bound between them, so many years of these occasional bouts of lust, sibling rivalry, one-upmanship, hours and hours on the set, arguments, flirtation, early morning coffee in the British Columbia woods, heart-to-heart talks, silent spells, boyfriends, girlfriends, pregnancy, hiatuses, interviews, awards shows, everything, it's just too much. And sometimes she forgets her own name and actually slips into character and she's a lonely FBI agent who shoulders an impossible love for her partner. It makes her head spin to look at him and know all that he means to her.

"Look at me,"he says, as she slides down on his cock. "Look at me, Gillian."

The way he says her name. She could come again right here and now.

Their eyes lock and a shiver runs up and down her spine.

His hands are on her hips, guiding her as she moves on him. Such a basic, natural thing to fuck another person. She wonders why they ever stopped in the first place when it's so good between them.

Oh, that's right. Because they drive one another nuts after more than twenty-four hours in each other's company.

When she comes, she closes her eyes and pretends she's twenty-four again, the new girl in Vancouver.

*

Her cell phone rings at 5:53 in the morning. She gropes for it on the bedside table, wondering who the hell has the nerve to call her at that hour.

It's the director. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I need you on set at 8:00."

She swears under her breath. "8:00? The call sheet says 1:00, Rob."

"I know, I know. But we have to reshoot the hallway scene. The sound was wrong and we didn't notice until we saw the dailies last night."

She wonders what she's done to deserve such punishment.

Oh, right. _That_.

She mutters something obscene and ends the call. The makeup artist is going to have to spackle cover-up on her today. She only got three hours of sleep.

She sits up in bed, trying to will herself to get up. From the other bedside table, she hears a cell phone ring.

His hand travels from her upper thigh to her breast. "We'll just have to be late this morning," he chuckles.

END


End file.
